Byers, a rhymer, by a riff.
Writers,
We set up the Seattle Refined challenge, to write about the passing of Chris Cornell, to be won based upon the most shares. Reading through the entries, and being here in Seattle, two things ran through our minds: So many good stories here, poems, tibute pieces, and pure expression of loss through art. The second was who would share what to put just one up top. The most shares went to James M. Byers, with his poem, aptly titled, "Black Sun, Black Days."
We could go into detail here, why we think this one received the most shares, or we could almost say we didn't really expect a rhyming poem to get the most shares in a challenge like this, but with a subject like the one presented, there was no gauge or reason for one. A great man died, and expression against death has always been the writer's medicine, or the most effective kind.
Fitting, actually, that a rhyming poem is featured as the most shared, because the lyricism of Cornell is what inpired the piece. Byers, in flawless recall, threw down the notes of tears in beautiful verse:
Pretty noose foreshadowed doom;
A burden in the palm.
Blowing up the outside gloom,
The rhinosaur brought balm.
Black rain fell in drops of thought
As phantoms telephoned.
Great write, James. A ton of heart.
You can read the entire poem here:
https://theprose.com/post/164786/black-sun-black-days
Black Sands
The shrieking roc dives from the endless sky
Banshee's shrill scream urges me through thick sand
The breath of its colossal wings pass by
King of eagles blasts into the scorched land.
Black embers score my skin as the roc strains
In ebon sand that throbs with the sun's rays
I drink in the sand's power--fire floods my veins;
Set alight, I harness the charred sands' blaze.
A charcoal swell surges at my command--
Then twists away of its own strange accord
Given life by some invisible hand
The sand's black coils claim the sky's fallen lord.
I will never forget this novel feat
Of the sand that lives in the searing heat.
Ugly Beauty (first chapter)
(This is the first chapter of my novel in the works, Ugly Beauty)
Mirrors. Sierra hated them. Every time she looked into one, she was reminded of what she wasn't. And that was pretty.
Of course, her parents assured her that she was beautiful. And at one time, Sierra had been naive enough to believe them. But on her first trip to Siris, the huge metropolis they lived on the outskirts of, she realized that she was what they called Flawed.
And she also found out why they didn't live in Siris. After all, only the richest and the prettiest could live in Siris.
And those two words--rich and pretty--didn't describe her family even if you used your imagination.
With a sigh, Sierra let the tiny gilded mirror fall from her hands to the rocks below. There was a tinkling noise as it broke, and she regretted what she'd done. But only for a moment.
She shielded her eyes as she glanced at the sun. It was time to go home. Much like a monkey, she scampered down four or five branches and then leaped to the rocks below.
"Ow!" she yelped in surprise, as a shard of glass from the mirror embedded itself in the calloused underside of her foot. Hopping around on one foot, she carefully squeezed out the tiny sliver and wiped away the blood.
She stared at it for a moment, long suppressed feelings bubbling up again. "Yeah, I bleed everything time I look in a mirror," she muttered angrily, tossing the piece away and limping home.
Sometimes, as she walked, she imagined that she was beautiful and rich, and living in Siris. And she had a boyfriend. But Sierra was too old for that, now, and her hopes of becoming beautiful when she hit her teenage years had shriveled up and died. So had the dreams of living in Siris before Governor Sharon. It was she who had made the first push to "cleanse" the city from "undesirables" such as Sierra's own self. Fifty years had passed since then, and Governor Sharon's goals had been carried out by her successors, Governor Lyron and Governor Petrie.
Upon reaching the small, two-story house that she knew as home, she paused to watch the sunset before pushing open the weathered front door and entering into the dim interior.
"Hello, honey," her mother called from the stove. The greeting was cautious, testing to see what Sierra's mood would be today.
"It's getting cooler, so that's nice," Sierra responded, heading for the stairs.
"Yes, that is," her mother agreed. She didn't press for any more conversation, recognizing that her daughter needed some additional time to think things through.
Sierra's mother wasn't plain, but she wasn't beautiful, either. However, something about the golden-red hair, blue eyes, and the graceful, proud way she carried herself often turned heads. Perhaps she would even have found a place for herself in Siris if she hadn't have fallen in love with a young man, who was both poor and flawed by a huge scar on the left side of his face.
Sierra wished she'd gotten her mother's elegance and grace, but she hadn't. She'd gotten the same reddish gold hair, only perhaps more red than gold, and her eyes were sky blue. Her skin was pale with freckles, and something about her face was just...plain.
It was of these things that Sierra thought as she stared out her window. Rheal, her best--and only--friend, had told her to quit thinking about her looks and try and help her parents out.
"Stop daydreaming, wishing you were beautiful because you're not. And you've got to come to grips with that," Rheal had broken out, at last, a little harshly. "I used to be beautiful until my face was burned in that big fire in Siris. If anyone has a right to complain, it's me, losing everything I knew. But you don't see me leaving at dawn to wallow in self-pity while my parents and siblings do all the work."
Sierra hadn't really talked to Rheal after that. She knew that he was right, and she didn't want to admit it.
"Time for dinner!" Keagan, her little brother, hollered up the stairs.
Sierra started from her thoughts, then collected herself. Turning away from the window, she hurried down the stairs to the dinner table.
There wasn't much talk. Her father was bone-tired from whatever it was he did at the power plant, and her younger brother was too busy stuffing his face with food to talk. Her mother, ever sensitive to Sierra's moods, just let her have her quiet.
Sierra gathered the supper dishes and washed them while her parents talked quietly in their bedroom. Maybe about her? She considered eavesdropping but pushed the thought quickly away. What was the point?
After washing the dishes and drying them, she lingered by the family room to watch her brother play. It was one of the rare moments in Sierra's life when she actually felt happy, watching his youthful innocence, as well as his curiosity at work, crafting impossible stories for his toys to play out. She actually smiled a little as she watched the giraffe and the ant fly to the moon to discover the charm that would make everyone beautiful.
I wish, she grinned, shaking her head.
Keagan, sensing her eyes on him, looked at her. "Do you want to play?"
He asked the question so often, and Sierra had said "no" so many times, she wondered if he would ever ask it again. But he had.
For a moment, she considered actually playing with him. But then she remembered that she was sixteen. This was a world she'd been shoved out of a while ago. Now it was like she was between two worlds--the world of her childhood and the world of her adulthood. And it was like neither wanted her.
"Not tonight, buddy. I'm a little tired," she responded, smiling at him. "But maybe tomorrow."
Keagan considered her for a moment, then smiled wider. "Okay!"
She lingered in the shadows, watching him return to his ridiculous fantasies, and then turned to the stairs and the haven of her bedroom.
Emotionally drained, she stiffly lay down on the bed, her sun-browned arms spread wide across the clean sheets. Gradually, as the moon rose in the sky, and her eyelids closed, her fingers worked their way beneath her pillow and closed around the small mirror she kept there.
For someone who hates mirrors, I sure have a lot of them, she thought wryly to herself.
The other part of her brain responded It's because you keep hoping that one day you'll look in that mirror and see a different face.
If only.
Title:Ugly Beauty
Author: Abigail Burchwell
Word Count of Excerpt: 1,105
Genre: YA/Fiction
Age Range: 14-18
Synopsis of Ugly Beauty: Sierra Rosenberg only wants one thing: she wants to be beautiful. After all, your face and your money are what gets you a place in Siris. Unfortunately, she has neither of those. She must learn to come to grips with her reality and learn that looks aren't everything, and ultimately, what true beauty really is.
Why I Believe This Project Holds Potential: Nowadays, a lot of emphases is placed on what you look like and how much stuff you have instead of who you are. A lot of teens are struggling to meet people's expectations of perfection and are left feeling inferior and worthless because they simply can't. It's important for every person to realize that their attitude and their personality is what makes them beautiful, just as Sierra does.
Education: Homeschooled/Private Tutor
Platform: Self-published on Amazon
Website: https://shadoweliteallies.wixsite.com/shadow-elite
Preferred Genre: Science Fiction/ YA
Age-Range: 14-18
Previously Published Works/Experience: The Motto Trilogy Book One: Together We Fight
Article in the Clarion Mirror
Three-year course in creative writing
Currently taking a year-long course in crafting short stories and novels
Likes: Outdoors, running, dog training, writing, swimming, hanging out with friends
Hobbies: Running, writing, drawing, and doing things with paracord
Bio: I've been writing since I was seven, and I haven't stopped since. I've only self-published one book, however, to "test the waters". I come from a large family consisting of four older brothers, a younger sister, a dog, and a snapping turtle. It can be hectic at times, but it's usually pretty fun, and never cease to give me encouragement, inspiration, and criticism!
Hometown: I was born in Hagerstown Maryland, but my family moved to North Carolina when I was three. I have recently moved to Pennsylvania.
Better Late Than Never (excerpt)
Chapter 12 – Hell on Earth
As we left the plane and walked to customs many hugs were shared among the passengers. Nervous apprehension surrounded me as we left customs and headed into the airport to find the promoter. I wasn’t expecting to see TV cameras and journalists in the greeting area to interview people from the “lost flight”. There were even a couple of entertainment writers waiting to talk with the Americans.
“Sir, what would have to say to the president of the airline who is standing over there?” I was asked.
“I’d ask him if Mickey or Donald was helping run the airline.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well the entire situation was handled in a Mickey Mouse way. We were left in the dark. It was cartoonish.”
The promoter grabbed me by the arm and hastily pulled all three of us into a waiting car.
“Was it that bad?” his cute assistant asked.
“It was far worse that that. I’ll tell you over drinks later.”
“I look forward to it.” she said with a big smile.
The promoter pointed to sights along the way and lots of nice buildings and big homes. Conversely there were mostly older cars and people wore out-of-date clothes. The few black people we saw really looked bad. On the other side of the freeway were weather-beaten dwellings. There wasn’t much going on over there.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s Soweto. It’s not as bad as you’ve been told.”
“Well, it looks pretty bad to me.”
“Our blacks have it better than anywhere else in Africa.”
“You said we were going to be able to use black and white musicians and singers. Is that still happening?”
“Yes. You’ll meet some of them tonight at Alfie’s club.”
“Alfie’s club has the best music and great food.” his assistant offered.
Greg piped in, “I’m looking forward to meeting the people who will be helping us.”
“You’ll be impressed,” the promoter said proudly. “We’re almost at the hotel.”
The area we were entering resembled Westwood Village in Los Angeles. Lots of trees, nice shops and apartment buildings dotted the streets. As we pulled up to the hotel, two black bellmen came out with a white guy. The white guy led us into the lobby. The General Manager and his assistant waited for us at the desk.
The GM came over, “Welcome to the Claridge. I am Klaus Verhooven. I am the General Manager. If there is anything at all you need while you are here, please let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Verhooven.”
“Please call me Klaus.” He said as he led us to the desk. “This is Anton, my assistant.
Katie is our Front Desk Manager. They are here to help you as well.”
Katie was beautiful, tall slender and amazing eyes. She organized all the paperwork we needed to sign to check-in, “Mr. Karlsruher, if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Please call me Rick and thank you.”
“Everything gets billed to me. In fact, have them all checked-in under my name,” the promoter told Katie.
“Certainly.” Anton said as he handed the promoter all the paperwork.
It took the promoter and his assistant Anya a few minutes to fill out all registration documents. I guessed they wanted to keep our names off the books to avoid any potential problems or keep the press away. After they did, I asked, “Katie could you get me a copy of everything for my records.”
“I’ll have it done in about fifteen minutes, if that’s soon enough. I’ll have it all in an envelope for you here at the desk.”
“Thank you.”
Klaus and Anton joined Anya and the promoter in the elevator with us. There was plenty of room for the bellmen to ride up with us, but they were forced to take another elevator. They got to our floor before we did. One took Greg and Betty to their room. The other came with Klaus, Anya and me to my room. A few steps from the room, one of bags slipped off the cart. Instinctively, I reached to pick it up.
Klaus looked stunned, “Please no. That’s what we have those people for sir.”
I was stunned. Yeah, if blacks were treated better than we heard as the promoter kept telling us, this didn’t show it. Klaus opened the door and showed into the room. The bellman put my bags into the closet leaving the small one on a bench by the bed. I reached to tip him and saw a bizarre custom we would see from now on in South Africa. The bellman grasped his wrist with one hand as his other hand opened and his head was tilted down so as not to look directly at me. I intentionally over tipped the bellman to overcome the slight paid him on the way to the room. Klaus opened the drapes to show a panoramic view of the entire city.
“Is everything to your liking?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then I’ll be going.” Klaus said as he left and closed the door.
Anya smiled. “I guess I’ll be leaving, too. This looks very comfortable.”
“Yes, it does. Tonight should be fun.”
“I think it will be.” She said moving closer to me. She put her arm around my waist, leaned over and kissed me. She moved away, then back to me and kissed me again. “It does look comfortable.”
As I walked her to the door, she turned and we kissed again this time with tongues. Tonight was looking very good indeed. She left.
I unpacked a bit and went down to the front desk to get my copies of the check-in materials. Arriving at the desk, Katie came out motioning me to have a seat in the lobby.
“I wanted to explain everything to you,” she said as we sat. She spread the papers on the table.
“It doesn’t sound like you are from South Africa.”
“I’m from Kenya, but there isn’t much opportunity for me there.”
“As nice and smart as you seem to be, I find that hard to believe.”
She blushed, “Thank you so much, but we don’t have many hotels in Nairobi where I'd have the possibility for advancement.”
“I like your ambition.”
Her smile and her eyes lit up the room as she explained all the sign-in materials.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you came a long way alone. You’re not married?” she asked with a smile.
“No, and I think my girlfriend broke up with me just before we left.”
“She’s not very bright.”
I was blushing, “Thank you.”
Yes, we were flirting. It was innocent, but it was also great. I think she noticed I was puzzled.
“It looks like you have a fan in Anya.”
“I might, but I don’t get it. We barely said three words. To be honest, I am a little uncomfortable. I hope she’s not setting me up. That could pose problems.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Several people walked in together from a minivan. There was only one other person behind the desk.
“It looks like your friend might need your help.”
She shrugged, “I guess so.”
She was amazing and so nice. I knew there was great potential for headaches here. How to navigate these obviously treacherous waters baffled me. Anya wanted me and if I screwed this up she could make my stay extremely uncomfortable. Why did Katie have to show up?
Anya picked us up at about 8 PM. Katie had left by then. Anya came directly to my room. She did look really good. We spent about half an hour fooling around before going to get Greg and Betty. I felt really bad about that. I was thinking about Katie.
Alfie’s club was on a bizarre street. The street was surrounded by walled homes. Part of the sidewalk was a boardwalk similar to the one in Atlantic City. The rest was very old cement. The stores were old and rundown. Through the windows, you could see empty shelves. What was for sale appeared old and patched together. The outside world’s economic sanctions were choking South Africa.
Alfie’s place was tired and dingy. The bar was more of a counter-top than a real bar. Each table was different than the next and no two chairs seemed to match. The clientele was mixed which shocked me. What was more surprising were the pictures on the walls. They included Mick Jagger, John Lennon, Hugh Masekela and many others hung in the dusty room. This was long before Photoshop. I couldn’t believe all those superstars would be able to find this hole in the wall.
As I looked around, the steaks looked good, but It didn’t look like they had more than one bottle of each kind of booze, a few bottles of wine and a refrigerator containing a couple of cases of beer. There were lots of people here. Was Alfie going to run out of booze? I was very confused. Alfie’s didn’t seem to have enough product for this big a crowd.
Shortly after we sat down, the promoter leaned over to me, “You’ve had a tough trip. I think you should take two days off to get your bearings and get over the jet lag.”
“Do we have the time?”
“It’s better to wait a couple of days than to do it over.”
“That sounds good. Thanks.”
A young black kid and an older white guy went up on stage with guitars. The white guy started playing some tasty, jazzy blues riffs. He was so smooth. The kid couldn’t have been more than 16-18 or so. I figured it was teacher and student. The kid mirrored the older guy’s riffs but with a little more rock flavor. The kid slowed down and looked at his guitar. He tapped with his fingers. He tapped the strings. Then he stretched them a little. I don’t know what he did next but instantaneously his guitar soared. The place erupted. He went higher and higher. The old guy started playing co-lead. It was beyond amazing.
I looked at the promoter, “Please tell me these guys are going to play with us.”
He smiled, “The night after tomorrow you’ll hear your drummer, bass and horns.”
“Are they this good?”
“Yes.”
I was very happy. A large black man came over to the table with an Indian woman. The promoter stood up and greeted him. “Rick, this is my friend Lefty. He went to university in America.”
“Nice to meet you, Lefty. Where did you go to school?”
“I got an MBA from Harvard.”
“Would you mind if I asked you a question?”
He started laughing, “I’ll answer it before you ask it. I came home to train the next generation of blacks so that some of us will be ready when apartheid ends.”
“Doesn’t that make you a marked man?”
“Well, I represent several white companies who want to do business in the townships.”
“Do your employers or the police know what else you do?”
“I keep the two separate and I make the distilleries I represent a lot of money. Would you like to come to Soweto tomorrow night?”
“Is it safe for me?”
“I’ll call the hotel and meet you in the lobby.”
He saw my nervousness,” I don’t know how to put this...”
“How can a black man get into your hotel if he isn’t an employee?”
“Are you psychic?”
Lefty laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m not black.”
I think Lefty was the blackest person I have ever met, “What?”
“You see, I have two white great grandmothers. That makes me colored.”
Anya, the promoter, Lefty and his girlfriend were all laughing at my confusion.
His girlfriend tried to explain, “Indians and coloreds have rights Africans don’t. Lefty and I can travel if we are willing to wait.”
Lefty entered, “Hospitals and schools are much better for coloreds than for Africans.”
“Do I even want to know how people know the difference?”
“Being American you won’t like it,” Lefty explained, “It’s on your birth certificate and identity papers. It follows you all your life and you can’t change it. People try to buy colored birth certificates. It also lets you live in better places.”
I was shaking my head. “Aren’t there about ten times as many blacks as whites in South Africa?”
Lefty laughed, “Now you are making yourself a target. They have all the guns and we can’t vote…yet. So, would you like to join me and see how the other part of South Africa lives?”
The promoter wasn’t happy about this turn of events, but I had to do it. If it were very dangerous or if I could get into trouble, wouldn’t the promoter or Anya jump in to stop me?
“I’d like to do that Lefty.”
Lefty nodded respectfully to me. That made my night.
The steak was wonderful, and the music continued to be great. Several other people sat in and a wonderful black lady sang. It was an incredible night.
As it got later, Anya’s hands found several parts of me. One under the table, the other had her fingers running through my hair. Normally, I’d be loving it knowing what was inevitably about to happen. I didn’t know how to stop it short of faking being sick.
Was I really falling for Katie? How could I explain this to her tomorrow? Katie saw what was going on with Anya and seemed to try to understand. But would she understand me coming back to the hotel the next morning or Anya leaving when Katie was working? It’s one thing to talk about something like this in the abstract. Even a great person would have significant challenges to be accepting of activities like the ones that were about to happen if they would see them up close.
Was the good part of me finding its way through the fear and despair? Could I break through the fog that was enveloping me?
I can’t make any excuses for spending the night with Anya. I did it. That’s what happened. She had to be at work early and dropped me off at the hotel before Katie got to work. I went to my room, took a shower and went to sleep. A few hours later I woke up and called Greg’s room. He wasn’t there. I had to go through the lobby on the way to the pool to find him. As I got there, Katie was going on a break. She motioned for me to meet her outside.
We met on the street on the street a couple of doors down. Her smile was brilliant. I had trouble looking her in the eye. She leaned over and held my hand.
“It’s OK.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s scary down here. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.”
I held her hand tighter and laughed, “Would going to Soweto tonight with a black guy fall into that category?”
“Please be careful. But you want to see it for yourself, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I’ve got to get back to work. Please be careful.” She leaned over and we kissed sweetly and briefly.
Chapter 13 – Seeing The Real South Africa
“You aren’t actually dumb enough to go to Soweto are you?” Greg asked.
“Yes, Lefty is coming by in a couple of minutes.”
“My uncle can’t protect you there.”
“Right.”
“You don’t think we have protection down here.”
“I’m not sure. This isn’t like California or New York or even Europe.”
This was the first time I had seen Greg off his game. I kept thinking about how odd it was. Greg took off.
Within a couple of minutes, Lefty came into the lobby to get me.
“Are you sure you want to join me tonight?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t think any less of you if you don’t.”
“I gave you my word.”
“You don’t have to be macho. You will hear things and see things you’ve never seen. You’ve got a good heart. Some of this will hurt you. I’m here if you need me.”
That frightened and soothed me. What was I about to see and hear? There was a three-year-old top-of-the-line BMW out front.
“Is that yours?”
“One of mine.” Lefty said chuckling.
“How?”
“I went to Harvard,” he said slapping me on the back.
We got into the car and started our drive.
“You like her, don’t you?”
Thinking he was talking about, Anya I responded, “Not really. I can’t figure out how not to be involved with her.”
“Not the girl from last night; the one who works at the hotel.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“It was in her eyes as you left. I understand your dilemma. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Remind me never to play poker with you.”
“Get ready. We are about to enter our hell. Remember hell is a location, not the people who are forced to be in that location.”
He was being very serious. He truly loved the people of Soweto. It’s the only explanation of why he stays when he doesn’t have to. Within less than a mile we went from world-class freeway to potholed streets and ending on an uneven gravel and dirt road. How could this happen so quickly? If this were the overt face of the community, what could be lurking out of sight?
There were burned out cars and junk on the street. We went past hovels. I felt myself getting ill. Lefty saw my face and body language. He patted me on the back.
“It will get better, but there is worse.”
“Worse than this?”
“Much worse. You couldn’t handle it. The world knows but doesn't want to tell the whole truth.”
“How...”
He cut me off, “There are evil people. Like it or not, there are many of them in this country.”
We turned off onto a semi-paved road. Soon there were small but basically clean yards. Clean in comparison to the hell we had just seen. These people tried.
Lefty turned into a driveway. There were lots of people in the yard. I heard laughter and music. Getting out of the car, I saw a lady sitting at a card table with a cigarette box taking money.
“What’s this?”
“The government won’t allow us to have bars in our own townships. This is what we call a shebeen. It’s like a moving club or party. The person whose home we use charges a small fee to pay for the food and liquor. Hopefully, they will make a small profit. Every penny is huge here.”
“The government won’t even let you have your own bars?”
“They are doing everything they can to keep us from building an African middle class. The government understands how dangerous that could be.”
Lefty paid our fee. We went into the living room. People were eating, drinking and having fun. My presence startled a lot of them. Lefty laughed.
“This is my friend from America. His name is Rick. He bravely wanted to see our township for himself rather than listening to the Dutch tell him how phenomenal it is.”
There were cheers, which made me very self-conscious. An older man brought me a drink and welcomed me to his son’s house.
A man about thirty approached, “Are you the American from the paper?”
“What are you talking about, sir?”
A lady said, “You were on the front page of the Joburg newspaper with your comments about your flight. It’s was very funny.”
Lefty was laughing, “I didn’t know I was bringing a star. What did you say?”
“Given the fact it took three days to fly from Brussels to Joburg, I asked if Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck happened to be running the airline.”
Lefty was laughing loudly, “You may have to watch your back. The Dutch don’t like people talking to them the way you did.”
A couple of other people clapped. Others stopped by to welcome me and tell me they would look after me. I was really touched. Some of these people clearly had little to nothing but they were willing to help a stranger.
“It’s not a game, young man,” an elegantly mannered old man said to me. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Understand what, sir?”
“For instance, calling me “sir” would make you a target to any white who heard you.”
“No.”
Lefty looked over. He was quite serious, “Jambo is right. Forget compassion, forget manners, and for your own safety you must think more like they do. We will understand.”
“You can do more quietly listening and taking our stories home with you. Tell them to all who will listen.”
“But I’m a nobody back home.”
“We are nobodies here. Who better to tell our story?” A very old lady said quietly.
Soon the party was breaking up. I received lots of hugs and wishes of good luck. Lefty and I got into the car to head back to the hotel.
“You can’t let anyone see you like this ever while you are here.”
“Why?”
“It won’t be safe. Your story while in South Africa is that you went with me to my cousin’s house for dinner and a few drinks.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to do this. You can’t even tell the kid you brought with you. The reality is I’d bet at least one person in the shebeen was a paid Security Police informant.”
“You are talking crazy.”
Lefty pulled the over to the side of the road. “Not listening to me is crazy. You may have been active in all sorts of protests in college in the US. If you did one here, you could end up dead. Please Rick, listen to me. I know asking you to do this is wrong. But you are my friend. Please let me look out for you while you are in my country.”
This scared me more than anything I had ever heard. I was trembling. “I went to your cousin’s house. We had dinner and drinks.”
“Thank you.”
It was still early when we got back to the hotel. I followed the company line at breakfast the next morning with Greg, Betty, the promoter and Anya. It was difficult, but I did it.
A little while later Greg and I decided to walk the few blocks to downtown. All of a sudden, I heard the screeching of tires and brakes. Then there was the unmistakable thud of a car hitting a person, then another person, then a light pole. I looked up to see a minivan wrapped around a pole. Two white people were on the ground. Several cops appeared out of nowhere. They helped those two victims. A black lady was on the ground bleeding. Three cops surrounded her. They didn’t help her. Ambulances helped the white people and the driver. The black lady was bleeding and crying.
“Aren’t you going to help her? She might die. Make a tourniquet at least.”
“Move along, kaffir lover. You don’t expect me to touch that, do you?”
I was on the verge of attacking the cops. Greg grabbed me and pulled me as hard as he could. I was sick. I was trembling. I pushed him away and ran. I just ran.
I had seen the pure evil all those people told me about last night. They told me so matter-of-factly that it seemed surreal. We were living in the last quarter of the twentieth century. This couldn’t be happening.
To this day, I still cannot fathom the level of their indoctrinated madness and evil. It was incomprehensible to anyone with a soul.
I had to be perfect. My first test was upon me. Katie was working. I tried to hide my pain and revulsion.
“Hi.” She was beaming. Then she looked at me, ran from behind the counter and dragged me into an office. “What happened?”
I couldn’t say anything. I tried, but nothing came out of my mouth.
“You saw the accident.”
“Yep.”
She hugged me. I could feel her tears on my neck.
I remember my body giving way as we hugged. To this day, I break into a cold sweat thinking about that morning. I still can’t comprehend the level of inhumanity I saw that morning.
Personal Data:
Better Late Than Never
Reality, memoir ties in with with another fiction title
70,000 words
Rick Karlsruher
Trident represents many true life stories that show the world to readers and include famous people in them.
The hook is life is truly stranger than fiction – another hook is you can get another book that is naturally paired with this one that is about a very hot topic in the world that is 100% opposite of this book. We can pair an outrageously humorous book with this terrifying true story.
A Story Almost Told tells of my real life odyssey trying to get a movie made. It starts out innocently and has many famous people innocently involved. Included in the story are stories that are individually amazing, but taken, in toto, defy any logic or rationality. From the beginning, it is amazing. The IRS and FBI use my dream as bait in a sting. We get to see the true horrors of apartheid in South Africa and immediately thereafter the opulence of Monte Carlo and even being arrested in New Orleans. There is much more.
The Target audience is anyone who enjoys excitement, seeing different places and real life.
I’d say the age group is 21+.
I have had an interesting life. I have done writing, music producing and international marketing. I even started a website to help new/undiscovered authors that has had over 6,000,000 page views.
As a platform, I have about 1700 Twitter followers, an email list of about 8000. I am an amazing interview. With Trident’s access and the publisher’s web, we’ll make both books major hits and likely get movie deals.
I have a degree in communications from Wake Forest University.
My style is conversational. I draw people into the story and make them think they are there. I’ve been told my personality is a bigger than life.
I love sports, movies, comedy, reading, music and being with people.
I live in Huntington Beach, CA.
Dot.
Frayed dried twig fingers knead lumps of pink matter,
Into a bloodied straw mass that grows fatter and fatter.
The donor, a victim that life has eschewed,
Her cold flesh as scarlet as her ruby red shoes.
A needle, a thread – open straw scars are sewed,
as blood drips to the bricks of the long amber road.
Then the murderer sings, with a cheery refrain
‘"If I Only" No longer, now that I have my brain.’
Black Sun, Black Days
Born of grunge and metal's mirth
Beneath the pouring rain,
Swarmed Seattle; legend's birth
Incorporating pain.
Troubled childhood, feeling down
Within depression's clutch,
Chris Cornell, against a frown,
Ensnared a hopeful touch.
Sparking much debate in school,
Religion took a fall,
Hence removed from off the spool
As Chris had questioned all.
Drugs escaped into his mind
And solo seemed the path
He would walk as albeit blind,
Until musician's math
Forged a bond as guitars strummed
And drums in pounding beat
Measured in the way he hummed-
A symphony complete.
Gardens made of sound arrived;
The friendship formed a band.
Intercession, songs survived
And guided Chris's hand.
Rusty cages seemed outshined
And more so, I suppose.
Moving melodies defined
A Jesus Christ like pose.
Spoonman sung in deepest rays-
A black hole sun's delight.
Fell on darkened, blackest days
The way he lived in night.
Pretty noose foreshadowed doom;
A burden in the palm.
Blowing up the outside gloom,
The rhinosaur brought balm.
Black rain fell in drops of thought
As phantoms telephoned.
Been away too long and bought
The crooked steps he zoned.
Slave to audio conformed
As in between the the time
Garden of the sound reformed
To sink in the sublime,
Chris Cornell enjoyed a stay
As new friends jammed in tune.
Like a stone, they learned to play
The highway and the rune.
Be yourself- a mantra's gift
And time had come to pass.
Doesn't call reminder's lift
As out of exile's class
Fire, original in flame,
In revelation's scheme
Burned the solo album's game
As if some sort of dream.
No such thing, a scream long gone,
And many singles sung-
Finally the heart of stone
Forgotten settled, hung.
Temple of the dog avowed
Unsettled pasts revived.
Chris did all he was allowed
And for a while he thrived.
Never known, the reason why
Detroit became the place
Seeds were sewn as his reply;
A sadness filled his face.
Songs performed were not the same,
Conditioned on the ride.
Chris Cornell, a hallowed name,
Committed suicide.
This is for his wife and kids;
The Fans he left behind.
Sadness beckons as it skids
Across the bump and grind-
Friends will not forget the man
Enlisting lyrics writ.
Concerts from the deepest span
Ensure he will not quit.
Lost forever to the earth,
Inside us Chris will give.
Born of grunge and metal's mirth,
His death calls us to live.
Different Drummer
My words churn and twist
insanity and pandemonium
visions of surreal ideas
orgasms of spouted thoughts
siphoned brain waves
My words bleed along edges
masked metaphors
chanting syllables
random and scattered
dancing, dangling nuances
Words encrypted to decipher or not
sublime flawed connections
sexy syllables of passion
stray words across canvas
reaching for lemon drop moon
Innovative, ground breaking concepts
spawning and creeping into light
opening up repressed vibes
scratching open barrier walls
pain sketched on stiff spines
Refusal to cross ‘t’s’ and dot ‘i’s’
provocative pregnant pauses
hoodwinking and finesse
floating Bohemian thoughts
begging for insight
inside writer’s free mind.
MAY PT. II
May has daffodil eyes, tastes of spring water.
She is a spring tantrum. Hail ricochets off her
bones. Petals form a nest around her heart.
She swallows wisps of clouds, stains her fingers
with wild berries. Weaves poison ivy through her
hair. She never wants to be anything soft or
disposable. She has honeyed skin, vanilla mouth.
Sugar sweet girl. Broken glass wedged in between
fists. Holds her breath, drains the pink from her
cheeks. Turns herself blue. Says, I was never
built for spring. I am the skeletons in the closet.
The ghosts in the basement. I am the outcast,
dressed up like a pageantry.